I closed my eyes, terror finally rising in me and seizing my throat, my tongue. For this cupboard, the one in which Eliza now found herself halfway inside, was full of my mother’s things, including treasures with which I could not bear to part, old remedies of which I’d had no need, and yes, a terrible, shuddering yes, several of her old containers that I knew for certain were engraved with the address of her once-reputable apothecary shop.

The address of this shop, which was not so reputable anymore.

Eliza’s tiny body slithered out of the cupboard, and in her hand was a cream-colored jar—about four inches high, one of a pair, 3 Back Alley hand-engraved onto the side of it. Without her saying another word, I knew its mate was in the cellar of Lady Clarence’s stately home. A familiar, sour burn rose in my throat, and I placed my hand on the cupboard to steady myself.

“It was like this,” Eliza said, her voice hardly more than a whisper, her eyes downcast. “The one with the powder looked like this.” She slowly, bravely looked up at me. “Have I done something wrong, Nella?”

Though my hands itched with the urge to strangle her, what did the girl know? It was a terrible misunderstanding—the room was full of shelves, and was it not my own fault for asking her to choose a canister? Was it not my own fault for bringing the girl into this shop of poisons in the first place?—and so I resisted the urge to slap her flushed face, and instead, I placed my arm around her. “Did you not read the jar, girl? Did you not see the words on it?”

She began to cry and sucked in a breath full of snot and tears. “It hardly looks like words,” she hiccuped. “See here, just a few messy etches. I cannot even properly read what it says.” And while she was correct—the impression was old, nearly illegible—it remained nevertheless a terrible oversight on her part.

“But you know words from a picture, don’t you?” I said.

She nodded slightly. “Oh, I am so sorry, Nella! What does this say?” She squinted as she attempted to read the words on the jar. I slowly traced the fading outline of the words, running my finger along the fat loops of the 3 and the letter B.

“Three B—” She paused, thinking. “Three Back Alley.” She set down the jar and crumbled into my arms. “Oh, can you ever forgive me, Nella?” Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed uncontrollably, tears dropping to the floor. “If you are arrested, it will be all my fault!” she said through her hiccups.